


Upping the Stakes

by Percygranger



Series: Gameplay [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Male Slash, Riding Crop, Roughness, Safewords, Slash, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:42:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percygranger/pseuds/Percygranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't know what he wants, and it's driving John crazy. The solution might be more than they can handle. Are they prepared to face their issues head on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What We Should Not Say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mugenmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/gifts).



> A gigantic, enormous ball of gratitude goes to every single person who read this and offered suggestions on making it better: Numberthescars, Fitz_y, Ureshiiichigo, and Pasiphile. Without you, this would be suckier, shorter, and much less in character! 
> 
> http://utresinflati.github.com/britpick.me/ was helpful in pointing out a few Americanisms of which I was not aware. Thanks to its creator.
> 
> Finally, I must also thank Mugenmine, without whom there would be no series at all. I have a feeling you thought your prompt would inspire a simple oneshot pwp...well, so did I!

“Red.”

“I - fine, if you’re sure. Are you okay?” John’s voice trembled slightly, his movements frustrated and jerky as he undid the bindings that held Sherlock’s hands to the headboard. Sherlock was spread underneath him, clothes mostly gone, no marks yet, they hadn’t even progressed that far. John had to hold back from saying more.

John stifled his frustration, but was quickly losing his patience. Watching Sherlock turn over, one hand free, his face blank, John couldn’t stop himself. “Why are you fighting this? This is the third time now. What am I doing wrong?”

Sherlock scoffed derisively, nearly snarling at John, and refused to answer directly. “It’s not good enough.”

John bit his lip, pulling the last knot free and flinging it to the floor. “You asked for this, Sherlock. We agreed. You can’t just safeword out without a good reason. If I don’t know why, I can’t give you what you need.”

Sherlock’s eyes refused to meet his, frustrating him further. John waited. Sherlock only responded well to pressure during cases.

“Ropes aren’t good,” Sherlock announced finally.

John’s head snapped up to track his expression. “...Yes?” he asked.

Sherlock’s face remained inscrutable, his voice even. “Let’s not use them in the future.”

John’s mouth opened slightly to argue, but then his gaze swung to the side, his shoulders drooping. “Fine,” he replied softly. “You okay?” He reached out, skimming his fingers with a doctor’s care over Sherlock’s recently-bound arms. No marks there, either, but John couldn’t help but want to check Sherlock over, to have one last bit of closeness before Sherlock pushed him away.

Sherlock waited for him to finish, then pulled back, swinging off the bed and heading towards the wardrobe.

John held in another shout, another question, another concern, then spoke, his voice tight. “Maybe, maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

Sherlock’s head shot up, an expression of alarm on his face. “Don’t you dare.” His voice wavered between outrage and begging.

“We were doing okay before this, yeah? Kissing and vanilla stuff and a bit of pinning you down...” John drifted off, looking away.

Sherlock’s lips pinched. “Just because you aren’t doing it right now doesn’t mean you can’t learn.”

“I’m the one not doing it right?!” John exploded. “ _You’re_ the one safewording before I barely even touch you!” He huffed in disgust. “I am trying. I am trying _for you_. This is supposedly what you want, after all!”

Sherlock sneered. “Like you did it out of the kindness of your heart. You like hurting me, don’t deny it.” He put on and belted his dressing robe, refusing to look up.

John’s fist clenched, then his eyes closed. “I’m going out. Unless you need something.” Then he left the room, barely waiting for a negative shake of the head from Sherlock.

He shrugged on his coat and grabbed his cane, making it hit the stairs a bit harder than necessary. Maybe he’d find words to convince Sherlock to trust him during his walk, or maybe Sherlock would get his head out of his arse.

John snorted, ignoring the glance from a lady passing the opposite direction. Like that was going to happen.

****

Sherlock moved from the window to the couch, dropping on it with controlled force. He felt the muted reverberations of the door slamming. Then John’s footsteps sounded on the steps. The door opened too slowly for Sherlock’s tastes, building up tension in an entirely unnecessary manner. He waited for John, letting him remove his coat before speaking.

“Take me down.” Sherlock kept his voice casual, his posture indolent.

John had just returned, face flushed from the winter chill. His expression was confused for a few seconds, processing Sherlock’s order.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Doesn’t mean I understood it.” John’s face was sombre and calm, his frustration only leaking out in the tense posture of his back, the clenched fists held by his sides. “We just tried that. It didn’t work.” He watched Sherlock intently. Sherlock shivered slightly. John must have brought the chill in.

Sherlock started to speak. Something was wrong with his voice, his chest felt constricted. He stopped and tried again, forcing the words out. “I can’t…relax. Unwind, get lost, when you let me decide things. When you let me stop you. I need you to win.”

John’s eyes flicked to Sherlock’s wrists, his tongue briefly visible. “Are you sure you want me to do this with you? Maybe you’d like someone more experienced.” His tone matched what Sherlock had catalogued as ‘bitter’.

Sherlock felt his breath stop for a second, and promptly hated himself for letting emotions get in the way of what he, no, what _they_ needed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I chose you for a relationship, and this is a part of that. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll stop.”

Expression shifting to something more amenable, John spoke again, “We didn’t have to do that before. You went willingly enough.”

“Yes, and now I need something different!” Losing his patience, Sherlock threw himself towards the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge for something to do.

John’s head moved in Sherlock’s peripheral vision, following him. “And I can’t do what you need unless you tell me what it is, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snorted.

John paused, then his face and body relaxed a bit. “So, this…this is good, I guess.”

There was a moment of silence. John followed Sherlock into the working space, grabbing the kettle and heading towards the sink. “Hand me the milk?”

Sherlock complied, pushing the carton into his waiting hand.

They stood in silence for a bit, John settling the kettle down and turning it on, Sherlock checking the white mice he was currently keeping for experiments, watching as one staggered drunkenly to the water bowl, as though it was going to find solace there. Sherlock smirked slightly. He moved on to the one long-term mould experiment relegated to the back of the cupboard, trying to find something he could do to them without starting another.

John broke the quiet, his voice rippling out across the kitchen like lake water reacting to a stone’s throw.

“So, when you say ‘take you down’, you mean you want me to force you?”

Sherlock’s hand clenched for a moment, perhaps attempting to gouge the table, but he stayed in place, refusing to react in any other way. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John raise his eyebrows and cross his arms. There was a tense, bare moment of silence. Finally, Sherlock looked up, and gestured for John to continue.

“You want me to take it from you. Pin you down, make you submit.” John’s eyes widened, and his voice lost its questioning lilt as he continued. “Ropes aren’t good because they aren’t me?”

Sherlock didn’t react. He just stood there, watching John’s dawning comprehension. His breaths came slightly quicker.

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s, and his breath stopped in his chest. He forced himself to restart, managing with only a slight stutter.

“Now?” John offered.

“Tea,” Sherlock corrected.

John angled his head, watching Sherlock silently. Sherlock’s stomach felt as though it were suddenly inhabited by eels. “No. You just said you didn’t want to be in charge.” He had a thoughtful look, one Sherlock saw often when he challenged John to do more than just see.

Sherlock froze under that stare, lips parting. (Oh, _yes_ , John. John was the only one who would get that. The only one Sherlock would ever explain it to.) His breath was coming a bit faster. Endorphins? Adrenaline? It hardly mattered. John was the most interesting thing in the room.

John smiled. “I’ll be the one choosing when we do things, then.” It wasn’t a question, not really. It was a way out. All Sherlock had to do was say something now, and John would stop, go back to what they’d done before. Sherlock could feel his mind warring with himself. Retreating from both ideas, but he couldn’t see a better way.

Nodding, his lips still curved, John went to check on the water. Sherlock turned to inspect his experiments on the table again, looking out the window. He felt his stomach clench and unclench, anticipation warring with trepidation. Would John begin the scene immediately after tea? No, no, no. Sherlock could feel the tendrils of possibilities slip through his mental fingers, too slippery to hold. Why was it so hard to _think_?

John returned with two steaming mugs. Sherlock took his, avoiding the hot body of the cup though he despised the handle. Inefficient, poorly designed, they cramped his hand if he used it for too long. It was a relief to have something else to focus on.

They sipped the tea, Sherlock occasionally looking up to see John’s stare fixed on him, then looking quickly away again. He couldn’t hold it for long. Odd, because intimidation was usually his strong point. How peculiar that here, with John, the situation reversed.

He couldn’t help but keep looking, though. Clues, indications of what John might do next could very well be found in his posture, his face, his eyes. There was nearly nothing to go on. John’s movements were smooth, easy, his hand shook as poured the tea, using the other to steady it. His body turned towards the table. John sat. His eyes closed and as he inhaled the rising steam, his foot tapped. Was it anticipation? Sherlock tried to affect his usual calm, but John obviously noticed Sherlock’s tells, his eyes dilating when he looked up; the edges of his mouth lifting. Sherlock felt nearly frantic. It was amazing, fantastic. Sherlock hated it and loved it at the same time.

Finally, Sherlock looked again, only to find John watching him steadily; his body neutral, still.

“Now?” Sherlock couldn’t help but say.

“Maybe later.” John replied, unable to hold back a tiny, rather evil grin, in Sherlock’s opinion. He pushed his mug towards Sherlock, and walked to the living area. “Clean these up, would you?”

Sherlock had a ball in his stomach winding tighter and tighter as the rest of him floated weightless above the ground, but this was one thing he knew how to respond to properly. He left the dishes where they were, going for his lab equipment. “Right.”

****

It had been three days, the tension ebbing and flowing between them as Sherlock tried to predict and push John into acting. John held firm, his words mild but obstructive, putting any attempts off.

****

“I’m not going to do this to punish you, Sherlock. Stop acting out.”

Sherlock slammed a hand against the desk, making everything on it jump. “I want to scene, damn it!”

John refused to startle. “And I don’t. Not now. You led me to believe that you wanted me to decide. Isn’t that right?”

Sherlock turned away, muttering.

****

The next day was an exact copy of the last: John was at the flat, apparently not working. The weather was a sullen, steady drizzle from the sky, streaking crookedly across the windows, inexorably headed towards the ground. Sherlock ignored it all and clenched his toes, propped on the arm of the sofa, watching them flex, absorbed in their function. His tongue felt limp; his mouth too heavy to move. Only his toes were working. Moving from the couch? A gargantuan task, one he refused to contemplate. He eyed John, not moving his head. His tormentor was sitting calmly at his desk, typing slowly. Couldn’t be for a case, they hadn’t had any recently.

John was never going to do anything with him again, Sherlock felt certain about this suddenly. He was using his newfound control to call it off. Sherlock felt sick, his stomach cramping. It was hard to care, though. The world was horrible and black and _boring_ , what was one more thing?

He didn’t look up as John walked towards him, tea in hand. Stupid John, boring John. Why had Sherlock picked him again? It was never going to happen-

“I’m ready to play,” John announced, “You have until I’m done with my tea to get ready.”

Sherlock looked up, alarm blaring red in his brain. He could almost feel his eyes dilate, his heart quicken. _Oh._

The pattern of John’s behaviour snapped into place: this was a test. Sherlock didn’t exactly feel like scening at this moment, but John was seeing how flexible Sherlock was willing to be. How much he meant what he’d led John to believe. The burning resentment in his heart started to fade. Sherlock could see multiple paths now: what might happen given the newest data.

John’s mug clinked, and footsteps headed back towards the kitchen. Sherlock blocked everything but John out, and let a new nervousness settle over him like a blanket. He dug his heels into the sofa, locked his arms, bent his wrists back and forth in four second intervals, trying to make each movement as small as possible. He would need to be ready when John returned.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try something new.
> 
> A/N: I've added a few hundred words to the first chapter. It doesn't change the action much, but I think it offers more insight into John's feelings. Read if you will.

John’s footsteps were heavy, loud vibrations that carried through the sofa. John was ready for combat, seeking to intimidate. Sherlock rolled off the couch as John approached, and used the momentum to bounce forward between the sofa and the table, heading for the front door. John immediately moved to intersect, slamming into Sherlock before they reached the stairs. It became a scrambling, close quarters fight. Sherlock immediately aimed for John’s soft spots, though he avoided his shoulder, as it wasn’t in bounds during any rough play.

John had the advantage, though. His training was better suited to close quarters combat, and while Sherlock could predict and learn quickly, John had more knowledge of how to deal with a larger civilian opponent. Sherlock gasped as a quick jab to the abdomen left him breathless, unable to do much as John grabbed his wrists, pulled them behind him and frog-marched him back to the sofa.

“John?” Sherlock gasped as he tried to shove back, twisting in his hold.

“Down, Sherlock,” John said, voice firm. He pushed Sherlock’s writhing body onto the sofa.

Sherlock’s already struggling breath whooshed out of his lungs as his body impacted the sofa. He nearly froze in surprise as John released his grasp, but quickly turned, rolling onto his back, hands scrabbling against the cushions for purchase as he curled defensively.

John’s hands pushed away Sherlock’s flailing limbs, catching his wrists and pinning them against the arm of the sofa. He climbed on top of Sherlock, hooking his feet around clenching thighs. Sherlock stilled, his mind warring between bucking them off the sofa—and potentially injuring them both in the process—and the even more undesirable option of giving up. John’s grip began to relax, leaving Sherlock’s thin wrists to rest where he had placed them. He resettled his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders.

****

John’s head tilted as he studied Sherlock’s face, panting a bit, “You ready to give up yet?”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked to John’s lips at the sound of his voice. His mouth started to open, teeth showing, obviously about to answer with a cutting remark. John cut it off with a kiss, aggressive and invasive. He forced his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, fingers moving to grip his jaw so he couldn’t bite down. The kiss continued for a few minutes, until Sherlock slowly softened. Encouraged, John roamed possessive hands down Sherlock’s torso and arms, mapping cloth-covered limbs.

John pulled back, surveying his territory. Sherlock was flushed, lips swollen, his clothing and hair were askew, curls tumbling every which way, collar open and lopsided. His shoulders had relaxed a bit, but it still wasn’t good enough. John wanted to see Sherlock give in, letting John take care of him, of everything, for once.

John moved, giving himself more room to work with, and began tracing the lines of too-prominent ribs, hollows above hipbones, hard bone jutting under soft skin still masked with cloth. He licked under Sherlock’s jaw, enjoying the salty taste of sweat, the scrape of his unshaven skin, and the rising musk of arousal.

He was undressing Sherlock now, clothing coming off button by button. A quick zipper pull undid Sherlock’s trousers, and John shoved them down around his hips. Sherlock bucked, and John brought a quick, hard slap down on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock’s body jumped under his hand.

“What did I do?” he asked, eyes darting slower now, his expression openly confused.

“You moved. That’s not your job. You stay still until I tell you to, understand?” John kept his tone firm, avoiding any trace of softness. Sherlock didn’t need softness right now.

Sherlock blinked a few times, absorbing that. Then he bucked again, eyes narrowed. John slapped him again, harder this time. Sherlock wasn’t able to keep a small noise from escaping.

“No moving, Sherlock. I mean it.”

“And what’re you going to do about it, John?” Sherlock asked, sarcasm seeping through. His eyes were glazing over, though. That, more than anything, told John he was getting this right.

John took hold of Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Anything I have to.” He took a deep breath, eyes locked with Sherlock’s, feeling calmer and surer with each motion.

Sherlock twisted, breaking John’s grasp, rolling under John. John bore down, feeling the bones of Sherlock’s hips roll between his thighs. He slowed Sherlock down, letting him complete his motion so that he was on his front, then pushing hard enough to stop him completely, hands curled around Sherlock’s biceps.

“Do you need me to beat you, Sherlock?” John asked, his calm infecting his tone, making the question seem nearly casual. No one liked pain, not really, but when you came down to it, Sherlock craved discipline more than he despised it. Teasing him with it was almost cruel, but this is what Sherlock seemed to need: a taskmaster, someone who wouldn’t bend when Sherlock pushed. John just hoped he could strike the balance between force and gentleness Sherlock wanted but couldn’t quite seem to describe.

Sherlock stiffened at John’s words, and his hands, now shoulder level and curled beneath his body, clenched into the fabric of the couch. He didn’t respond beyond a childish shake of his head, pushing his face deeper into the cushion.

“I think you do, actually,” John replied. “You don’t want decisions, or need them, not when you’re with me. I’ve got you here, at my mercy, and I think you need to be whipped. What are you going to do about that?”

Sherlock bucked upwards, trying to dislodge John, but John held on, shifting his weight, making the impacts come down hard, pressing Sherlock’s face into the seat. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrists, bringing them together behind his back.

He pulled Sherlock up, rolling him over and standing him in front of John, hands still held securely behind his back. Sherlock moved, trying to take advantage of his new range of motion. John twisted Sherlock’s arms and put a foot in front of Sherlock’s. Sherlock stumbled forward.

John saw Sherlock wince as his arms were turned painfully in directions they weren’t supposed to go. He was breathing rapidly now, his head turned slightly to watch John behind him even as he shuffled on unsteady legs back towards him.

John guided him forward, taking care not to overextend the angle and do permanent damage, and headed for Sherlock’s room. They clipped the door frame as Sherlock jerked sideways, trying to free his arms, but John kept holding on. He slammed Sherlock into the wall next to the wardrobe and held him with one hand and most of his body weight, looking for the thin, leather-covered stick he knew was propped inside. Sherlock squirmed again, and, in a sudden burst of inspiration, John took hold of Sherlock’s arms and pulled him back, only to push him to his knees in front of the wardrobe.

“Get the crop for me, and if you do anything other than give it to me,” John threatened softly, “I’ll give you twice the thrashing you were going to get originally.”

Sherlock’s limbs stilled. Slowly, his head slumped and his arms went loose beneath John’s hands. John let one hand go, very slowly, watching for any sudden moves. Feeling for any tell-tale signs of tension, he curved his fingers around Sherlock’s neck, taking his pulse. It sped up.

Sherlock’s movements were graceful despite the awkward position: his head didn’t move, but John could see his eyes searching for the crop before moving to take it in his free hand. Then, cautiously, Sherlock brought it out, raising it above his head and offering it to John.

“Good boy,” John soothed, accepting the crop. “Arm down.” He pulled Sherlock’s arms together behind his back again before pushing him down slowly, a hand between his slightly raised scapulae. Sherlock bent at the waist, his head and chest going to the floor. John held him there for a second, then stepped back to admire the view. The messy hair, slightly sweaty now, the half-undone clothing. Sherlock looked a fright, his shirt hanging open, trousers unzipped. John felt a surge of desire. He had done this.

“Trousers off!” he barked, wanting to see how Sherlock responded to a military tone. It was a pleasant surprise to see Sherlock’s hands come immediately to his sides, removing the material from his body. The utilitarian movements were unintentionally seductive.

“Arms in front, even with your face.” John kept his tone stern, softening only slightly in response to Sherlock’s obedience. He measured the distance between them, swishing the crop through the air several times to get a feel for it. This wasn’t practice anymore; he had to get it right.

John took a deep breath, held it, released it, then stepped forward, going down on one knee. He could kneel now - his leg was pain-free most days. He brought the crop’s tip down lightly on one covered buttock, watching the fabric indent, seeing Sherlock jerk slightly. He did it again, getting the motion down, alternating between sides. The fabric, already stretched tightly over Sherlock’s lovely bum, didn’t tear under the slapper, but it didn’t protect the skin much either. John really wanted to see that skin, see it flush red in the shape of the crop. He pulled back.

“Pants down, now.” His voice was quiet, steely. “And then crawl to the bed.”

Sherlock took a deep shuddering breath, but did as he was told. He wriggled out of his pants, careful to avoid the tender skin of his backside, and crawled out of them, hesitating on the first few steps until John brought the crop down again, making him jump.

“The bed, lie on it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock moved, cat-like, limbs stretching as he crawled. The bed was low, not hard to climb. It dipped as Sherlock pulled himself on top of it.

His arse was just as glorious as John had suspected. The contrast between the creamy white skin and small, vaguely square patches of pink made John shiver inside, his cock jumping.

He wasted no more time, bringing the crop down with measured force, again and again, never in the same place twice, though he would occasionally overlap two blows, relishing Sherlock’s jump and whine in response. Sherlock’s buttocks pinkened, blotchy at first, showing the crisp outlines of the popper. Sherlock moaned as John started to fill in the unpunished areas, blurring the lines.

He took a break, holding back and simply tapping with the crop, giving the skin time to become slightly less sensitive, but as soon as Sherlock relaxed, he snapped his wrist down with more force, bringing the level of pain back up. Sherlock needed to learn that a simple whine wasn’t going to stop John. If anything, the cry without a safeword to back it up only made John more determined to find Sherlock’s real limits.

John started concentrating his blows on one spot, putting three or four down before moving on to the next patch of skin. Sherlock’s movements became jerkier, the muscles in his arms and legs tensing. Sherlock’s feet flexed, his knuckles going white as he desperately grasped the bed spread. John pushed it even further, going back over punished skin, and watched, fascinated, as Sherlock’s control broke. Hands released the covers and shot down to cover hot throbbing buttocks. After a pause, John struck his hands, softer than previous strikes, but enough to make Sherlock jerk them away.

“I did not tell you you could do that, Sherlock.” John kept his voice low and menacing. “This-” he punctuated his words with a firm caress of the rod on Sherlock’s arse, prompting a small moan, “-is mine to do with as I please. You don’t get a say. Bring your hands back here and open them.”

Sherlock looked at John, eyes wide and mouth working. “John-”

“Now, Sherlock.” John interrupted ruthlessly.

Sherlock’s eyes got even wider, looking at John, and he slumped into the bed, sweat starting to bead at his forehead. He slowly brought his hands behind him again, turning them so that his palms faced John.

“You get three on each for disobeying me.” John snapped the crop down, still not as hard or fast as he had on Sherlock’s padded bum, but certainly enough to sting. John was surprised and pleased when Sherlock kept his hands still and open after the strikes, although they quivered slightly.

“Put them beside your hips, palm up. If you do that again, you’ll get more than that, understood?”

Sherlock nodded, face partially obscured by the mattress, his body twitching slightly. Satisfied with Sherlock’s compliance, John adjusted himself and went back to work. Giving Sherlock a thorough, hard fucking sounded very good right now, but John needed to take this all the way to the end. Sherlock had trusted him enough to give him control, and John was not about to lose it.

The cycle continued. John covered every inch of Sherlock’s backside with the crop, bringing it to a glowing pink. Sherlock was flinching and moaning into the mattress. John paused to feel the warmth of the reddened skin with a hand. Sherlock tried to move, wriggling slightly away. John responded with a stern prod pushing into the crease between buttock and thigh. Much to Sherlock’s dismay, if his protests were anything to go by.

“Do you want me to do your thighs?” John asked, considering the idea, wanting to see Sherlock’s reaction.

“No, no, please, John.” Sherlock’s voice was shaky, the preface of tears in it.

John’s stomach tightened at the words.

“I might, if you keep moving. Stay still.” John kept his voice firm and reasonable. It wasn’t as though he was asking the impossible. And this was what Sherlock had wanted, right?

“Yes, John.”

John stroked the tip of the crop over one buttock, producing a low moan. “What do you say?”

“I mean—” Sherlock’s voice cracked as John brought the crop down lightly on already marked skin, making him tremble. “I mean, I’m sorry. I’ll be still.”

“Good.” And John went back to work, bringing the crop down with a nice, now familiar pop.

Sherlock was sniffling as they neared the end, unable to keep still, and blinking hard to keep back tears. John felt a simultaneous rush of uneasiness—they’d never gone quite this far before—and love, seeing Sherlock undone for him, by him. They both wanted this. John soothed the hot cheeks with a gentle hand, and Sherlock pressed back into it, despite how it must hurt. John picked up the crop and brought it down smartly. “I told you before, you have to stay still, Sherlock.”

“No, John, I didn’t mean-”

“Be quiet.” John pitched his voice low, a carrying tone that kept soldiers in line.

Sherlock stilled, his body held tense.

John brought the crop down on the thigh nearest to him, watching as the muscle jumped and Sherlock’s voice cracked. He did it again, spacing it as evenly as he could, making a trail down Sherlock’s thigh, staying well clear of the knee joint. Sherlock’s cries got more and more desperate, his legs twitching as John punished them relentlessly.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Sherlock?” John asked in the same penetrating tone. He brought the crop down with more force. Sherlock screamed and sobbed into the bedding. “I brought you down. I humbled you. I made you do everything I wanted-”

“Red, red, please!”

John stopped, panting harshly. “Shit.” Was Sherlock hurt? Bleeding? A quick visual check revealed unbroken skin. Why had he thought this was a good idea? He’d screwed it all up. Typical. John Watson, great at fighting and doctoring, not so great at caring for someone he’d known for months. “Are you hurt?”

Sherlock turned his head to speak to John, laughing and sobbing in the same breath. “No. Just- too much-” He brought his hands up and under his head, bracing his forehead on his forearms.

John looked at the marks on Sherlock’s thighs, at Sherlock pushing himself into the comforter, tears and snot dampening it, and dropped the crop on the bedside table. “Is it okay if I touch you?” John felt adrift, falling back on old, barely remembered training.

Sherlock managed a muffled. “Yes.” The _you idiot_ was implied, John felt.

John reached out slowly, avoided the inflamed areas, sliding a gentle hand up Sherlock’s back to his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I really took it too far that time, didn’t I? Are you okay?” John knelt, hesitating before putting an arm slowly around Sherlock’s shoulders, waiting to see how Sherlock would respond.

Sherlock shuddered under his touch, but he didn’t move away, his sobs slowly becoming less. John hugged him as best he could without moving him. John offered Sherlock some tissues, and helped him to his side.

“Are you okay?” John pressed, not willing to let Sherlock get by with silence.

“I- yes.” Sherlock replied, voice nasal, and blew his nose.

“I’ll get you an icepack. You need anything else?” John took the time to watch Sherlock’s reaction to his question. Sherlock looked lost at first, eyes darting around the room. John felt his heart thump oddly to see Sherlock so vulnerable.

“Some water?” Sherlock managed, not looking at John.

“Yes, of course.” John replied, and got up, ignoring the tingles in his legs. He focused on completing his tasks as efficiently as possible, unwilling to let Sherlock be alone for any longer than necessary.

As he entered the room, he saw that Sherlock had moved, standing in front of the full-length mirror that sat in the corner. He was examining his marks, flinching as his fingers brushed them.

“What are you doing up?” John asked. “You need to rest.”

Sherlock looked John in the eye, and John felt a shock to realize this was the only the second time he’d done it since the whipping had begun. “I wanted to see how they looked.”

“You can do that later. Now you need to recover.” John set the cup and icepack on the bedside table, and moved slowly into Sherlock’s space, not sure what the reaction would be. Sherlock allowed it, letting John’s arm snake under his shoulders. John grunted as most of Sherlock’s weight transferred to him. “You’re not the brightest, you know.”

“Yes, John, so you’ve said.” Sherlock’s voice lacked the usual cutting edge it carried when John insulted him.

They arrived at the bed, and John helped Sherlock lie on his front. The marks on his thighs stood out accusingly. John winced, although Sherlock hadn’t made a sound.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” John slid the ice up Sherlock’s thigh to his bum, hand perfectly steady, Sherlock gasped. John managed, “Sorry, sorry!” and gentled his touch, but Sherlock cut him off.

“Of course you wanted to hurt me, John. That’s what people do.”

“No! I-” John cut himself off, thinking carefully. “I never wanted to hurt you. This was supposed to be about...pleasing you, taking you down to where you could enjoy yourself. No harm, never that.”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled and flat, his face buried in the bedspread, it was relaxed now, except where the ice touched it.

“Can you forgive me for this?”

“Forgive what, John?” Sherlock turned, facing John again, his eyes hard.

“Making you safeword, hurting you.” John felt the words being ripped out of him. “This isn’t the same as last time. I’m the one who messed it all up.”

Sherlock blinked. “That’s remarkably irrelevant here.”

“No! It’s _not_.” John nearly shouted the first word, then brought his tone down to a vibrating rasp. “If I can’t control myself, or see when you’re really in distress, then how am I supposed to do this properly? I don’t want to go this far again, but if- if that’s what you need.” John sighed heavily. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Sherlock’s face turned annoyed, then softened. “John, this was the best scene I have ever been a part of. You did very well for being such an inexperienced dom, and I want to do this again. I have no doubt you will learn from this and manage to avoid my limits, mostly, from now on.” He stopped, looking pained. “It would be preferable if you stayed.”

“Oh.” John felt stunned, but his body moved on its own, sliding a gentle hand down the small of Sherlock’s back as he sat down on the bed. “Right. Thanks.” He leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s cheek, but Sherlock shifted so that their lips met, soft and brief. He stayed close after, their breath warm between them. “I wasn’t going anywhere. It’s just, it’s hard to do something like this without positive feedback, yes?”

“Are you saying you wish me to praise you after every time?” Sherlock grimaced.

John laughed slightly, pulling up again. “Maybe not every one, but maybe if something really worked...or didn’t. I’m not a mind-reader, you know.”

“Fine.” Sherlock groaned, letting his head flop down on the bed again. “More ice. And John?”

John picked up the icepack and reapplied it carefully, watching as Sherlock hissed, then relaxed into it. “Yes?”

“Don’t expect it to be easy.”

John smiled, “Yeah. I never do, with you.”

Sherlock turned back into the pillow. John stroked his curls fondly for a minute or two, then Sherlock spoke again.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos are stroked gently. Comments are replied to and considered for sainthood.


End file.
